


she moves like a knife

by doctorkaitlyn



Series: Ladies Bingo 2020 [18]
Category: Hemlock Grove, Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Background Character Death, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Crossover, F/F, First Meetings, Murder, Political Alliances, Rough Sex, Upir, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:33:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29607423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: Slowly, Olivia’s jaw begins to retract, bones cracking as they reset. Even as she continues to lick blood off her own arms, Camille can’t take her eyes away from Olivia’s face, from the way her skin ripples and shifts as the bones move back into place.She wants this. She wants her transformation to be a thing that she can’t hide. She wants it to be bone breaking and grotesque.She wants to be trulymonstrous.
Relationships: Camille Belcourt/Olivia Godfrey
Series: Ladies Bingo 2020 [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956031
Kudos: 3
Collections: Ladies Bingo 2020





	she moves like a knife

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 'Gore' square on my [Ladies Bingo 2020](https://ladiesbingo.dreamwidth.org/) bingo card! this whole fic is just incredibly self-indulgent. please heed the tags. 
> 
> title borrowed from [the song of the same name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LGYk1Dcpl4I) by Perturbator.

Camille has never met Olivia Godfrey.

She only knows what she’s seen in the papers and what she’s heard through the grapevine, but as soon as she strides into _Le Sang Rouge_ just past midnight, descends down the dimly lit staircase leading from the street into the dark of the bar and catches a glimpse of Olivia, she knows immediately that what little she knows is a mere _fraction_ of the truth. 

Even from across the room, she can feel Olivia’s power filling the room like a particularly strong perfume. As she peers around the room, glancing at the darkened booths filled with bodies not so subtly writhing together, it’s obvious that she isn’t the only one who has noticed. There isn’t a single vampire standing within six feet of Olivia, but the barstools on either side of her are occupied by humans, both of whom are staring at her with their chins propped in their hands like besotted teenagers. Unsurprisingly, Olivia doesn’t appear to be interested. She’s staring straight ahead at the line of bottles behind the bar. She’s holding a drink in her hand, but the position of her body blocks most of Camille’s view, making it difficult to tell if it’s blood or something more mundane. 

Despite the abundance of playthings around her, the eager flesh begging to be devoured, she looks like she’d rather be anywhere else in the world. She looks like a person in a waiting room long past their appointment time, staring at the clock, debating whether or not they should continue to exercise patience or whether they should give up and leave. 

Camille isn’t _that_ late. It’s only thirty-five minutes past when she was due to arrive. Okay, more like forty-five, but she spent more time than she intended putting together her outfit for the evening, making sure she had an ensemble appropriate for a meeting with a certified upir queen. In the end, she had gone with a deep burgundy dress, matching lipstick and gold jewelry at her throat and ears. 

Compared to Olivia, to her fitted white dress and her black stilettos, both of which are free of adornment, she feels overdressed. 

She’s wasted enough time taking in the scene, savoring the mingled smells of blood and arousal flooding the space - if she doesn’t move soon, Olivia may very well leave, and Camille would lose her chance at bringing together her own clan and the upirs of the East Coast in a tentative alliance. Descending the stairs to the sunken dance floor, she crosses the room to the bar and taps on the shoulder of the person sitting on Olivia’s right. He’s a young man, wearing a NYU pullover sweater and khakis, reeking of cologne and alcohol, with the muscular build of someone who spends most of their time in the gym rather than the classroom, the kind of idiotic muscle that Camille would consider having fun with, if it was a night where she didn’t have any prior commitments. As is, once the man has turned around, Camille wraps her fingers around his shoulder. 

“Move along, pretty boy,” she says quietly. The man opens his mouth, looking like he’s going to protest, and Camille squeezes harder, feels the tips of her nails pierce his skin. At that, he blanches, and slides off the barstool. Camille doesn’t give him a second glance. Sliding onto the barstool, still warm from his flesh, she waves at the bartender and asks for a glass of O positive. As he goes to prepare it, she turns on her chair so that she can finally get a good look at Olivia Godfrey. 

The pictures in the paper don’t do her justice. 

There’s a certain timelessness to her facial features, a timelessness that no doubt made it easy for her to slip through the decades, reinventing herself as need be. Her black hair is long and straight, glossy enough to reflect back the overhead lights. Her perfectly tailored dress cuts off just above the knee, revealing long, toned legs. Her skin is smooth and almost looks tanned, which Camille supposes is a direct result of Olivia being able to go outside without bursting into flames.

For a moment, she feels a spark of envy in her stomach. While this is supposed to be a business meeting, she wants to ask Olivia what the sun looks like. She wants to ask her what it’s like to feel warmth on her skin, what it feels like to be freed from the confines of the shadows. 

Before she can ask anything, Olivia speaks. 

“You’re late.” Her lips are painted berry-red, and Camille finds herself momentarily distracted by the way they purse slightly as Olivia glances in her direction. She doesn’t look impressed, and while Camille doesn’t regret taking the time to make herself look presentable, she knows that she has some work to do if she wants to get this meeting back on track. 

Thankfully, she’s been involved in clan politics for years. If she knows one thing, it’s how to spin a meeting to her advantage. 

That being said, most of her opponents aren’t nearly as stunning as Olivia, or as powerful, but if she didn’t want a challenge, she wouldn’t be here. 

“My apologies,” she says, nodding at the bartender as he sits a coaster and her glass of warm, fresh blood down in front of her. While she’s able to keep herself composed, it’s with much effort that she suppresses the delighted shiver that goes down her spine as she takes her first sip. Whoever the source was, they must have lived a healthy lifestyle – the blood is crisp and smooth, and it leaves a pleasant burn in her stomach when she sits the glass back down on the polished wood of the bar. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Mrs. Godfrey.” 

Olivia makes a sound almost like a snort and raises an eyebrow at Camille. “ _Mrs._ Godfrey? Call me Olivia, and I’ll call you Camille.” Her accent is aristocratic, clipped at the edges, and the rhythm of her speech reminds Camille of a stage actress, of someone who is used to controlling an entire room with the sound of their voice. She doesn’t think it’s any kind of hypnosis or thrall, although she knows that Olivia is capable of that as well – rather, she thinks it’s simply the result of many years of practice. 

“Olivia it is,” Camille replies. “I didn’t mean to insult you. You must understand, I’ve never had the honor of meeting an upir. Your reputation precedes you.” 

Olivia raises an eyebrow. “Is that so? What do the vampires of your clan say about me?” 

If Camille were to divulge all of the information that she has heard about Olivia Godfrey, it’s likely that Olivia would either be so insulted that their meeting would come to an immediate end, or she would think Camille’s entire clan, herself included, were imbeciles. She does know that Olivia has two children, a boy and a girl, both of them teenagers. She knows that the boy has inherited his mother’s condition, that he’s a hot-headed child of privilege who is probably going to get himself killed if he isn’t careful. She has heard that the daughter is different; not upir, but not human either. Some of the rumors say that her condition is the result of medical experimentation, but Camille doesn’t know one way or another. She _does_ know about the Godfrey family fortune, of course, about the White Tower that juts out of coal territory like a glowing monument to wealth. She knows about the death of Olivia’s husband, the unexplained mystery behind it. 

But she doesn’t think that Olivia needs to hear all of that. It would just waste time, precious time that Camille should really be spending getting herself back into Olivia’s good books. 

“We’ve heard about your power, of course,” she says diplomatically. “About how the whole town of Hemlock Grove owes its livelihood to you.” 

Olivia rolls her eyes. “You’d be hard-pressed to get them to admit that. Most of them would rather pull out their own teeth.” 

“They dishonor you,” Camille replies, taking another measured sip from her glass, carefully keeping her eyes on Olivia. 

“They certainly do.” Olivia twists around and, still clutching her drink, waves out at the crowded room. There are still no vampires within arm’s reach, and the ones scattered throughout the bar seem to be doing their best to avoid looking at her. “And I’m surprised by the reception here. Don’t think that I haven’t noticed.”

“They’re cowards.” Camille casts her own disdainful look out at the crowd. “They’re resentful of you.” She’s sure that some ears are burning, that she’ll hear about this later, but that doesn’t make it any less true. She’s not saying that the fear of the other vampires of the room is without merit – Olivia _is_ more powerful and older than most of them, and she’s able to blend in better - but it’s more than that. While the other vampires may say that they’re happy to be denizens of the night, they still resent that half the day (longer than that during the summertime) is permanently closed off to them. Olivia doesn’t have that issue. Camille imagines that the sun isn’t pleasant for her, but she can still bear it; she doesn’t have to retreat into the shadows like a rat in order to survive. 

Olivia slowly shakes her head, gazing out at the packed room. A number of humans immediately step closer, drawn to her like moths to a flame, but she turns her back on them. With a scowl, she turns to Camille and asks, “And you? Do you resent me?” 

Camille shakes her head. 

“No,” she answers. “I think you should be worshipped, not resented.” It’s a little more honest than she intended to be, and she’s concerned that it’ll make her look like a groupie, but that doesn’t make it any less truthful. She carefully watches Olivia, as her reaction will directly impact Camille’s next move, will impact whether she tries to move this meeting back to strictly business or whether she takes a few more tentative steps down the path that won’t benefit her whole clan but may benefit herself quite sufficiently. 

After a moment, the corners of Olivia’s painted mouth turn up into a smile. It’s slight, perfectly composed, almost _coy_ , but it is a smile nonetheless. She tosses back the rest of her drink and sets it on the bar before she leans into Camille’s space. If it was coming from anyone else, Camille would immediately regard the move as an intrusion, but from Olivia, from this beautiful woman who oozes power and danger from her very pores, who has brought lord knows how many people to their knees, it only makes Camille shiver. 

“Would you be interested in discussing the terms of our agreement somewhere else?” Olivia asks. “I normally conduct business in a quieter environment.” 

“Do you have somewhere in mind?” 

Olivia nods. “I have an apartment nearby. One of my husband’s old haunts. It may be dusty, but it should suffice. If you are interested, of course.” 

Subtly, Camille glances at the clock above the line of bottles behind the bar. It’s twelve-thirty, and technically, she is supposed to be back to her condo by two so that she can apprise the rest of her clan on how the meeting went, but she can postpone. If they don’t have the patience to wait for a few hours, then they don’t deserve to be in her clan. 

“I’m interested.”

“Wonderful.” As Camille finishes up the blood in her glass, Olivia spins around on her stool so that she’s facing the person on her left. Camille had almost forgotten that there was anyone sitting there, but it appears that despite Olivia’s complete lack of interest, the young woman is completely enthralled. It’s almost laughable how much she’s trying to look like vampire bait. Her ebony hair is cut in a severe, chin length bob, her skin is powdered alabaster white, and her lips are covered in a matte coating of black lipstick. When Olivia deigns to acknowledge her, a dopy smile lights up her face. She would be pretty, Camille thinks, if she wasn’t trying so hard to fit in (and, ironically, making herself look even more like an outsider). 

“Would you like to join us?” Olivia asks. Her voice has changed – it’s lower, and her accent has shifted from crisp and sharp to more of a drawl. The young woman blinks a few times before she nods. 

“Yes,” she answers, glancing past Olivia to Camille. “I would love that.” Camille does her best to bite back an amused smirk – the woman is so eager that her voice is practically vibrating. She has no doubt that the eagerness is working its way into her blood as well, making it taste bold and sweet. 

“Good.” Olivia reaches out and brushes her fingertips through the harsh fringe of the woman’s bob. “We will be up shortly. Meet us at the door.” 

Nodding rapidly, the woman slides off her stool and gets to her feet, wobbling slightly as she heads towards the exit. Camille watches her for a moment before she returns her gaze to Olivia, who is gazing at her in return. 

“Customarily, it is rude to have a guest over and not provide them with food,” she says. Despite Camille’s best efforts to drain every last dreg of blood from her glass, there’s still a thin film clinging to the bottom and, as she watches, Olivia reaches in, drags her fingertip through the film, and brings it to her mouth, where she carefully sucks it off. Her sigh is audible even above the noise of the bar, and when she opens her eyes, there is a new sparkle lurking in their dark depths. 

Arousal blossoms in Camille’s core, burning bright alongside the hunger that’s leeching into her veins. Even though she can still feel her glass of blood in her stomach, she wants _more_. She wants to drain that young woman, wants to split her with Olivia, wants to tear her into shreds. 

She wants everything and anything Olivia is willing to share with her. 

“Thank you for your hospitality,” she says, withdrawing some cash from her clutch and leaving it on the bar beside her glass. “Care to lead the way?” 

With a smile, Olivia slides from her stool and does just that.

&.

Olivia was not lying about her apartment being close – it’s a mere ten minute walk, even in their stilettos. By unspoken agreement, they keep the woman between them, guiding her forward with an occasional touch on the back or a light stroke on the exposed nape of her neck. Occasionally, she tries to make conversation, asks them their names or where they’re going, but she’s easy enough to ignore. At one point, when her voice grows louder, Olivia murmurs, “Quiet, pet,” and places a finger to her lips, all without breaking stride.

The only sound that comes out of the woman’s mouth at that is a whimpering moan.

By the time they make it to Olivia’s apartment, the smell of the woman’s arousal is so thick that it tickles Camille’s throat when she breathes in. 

She wants to drown herself in it. 

Thankfully, she suspects that she won’t have to wait much longer to do exactly that. 

Olivia’s apartment is on the twentieth floor of a non-descript condo complex. It’s clearly been some time since it was used – a musty smell lingers in the air, and most of the living room furniture is draped with thick white sheets, like children dressed up as ghosts. The view from the windows is skyscrapers and more skyscrapers, a swirl of flashing lights, strobes and twirling spotlights coming from the direction of Times Square. It’s not a view that Camille is able to take in for long; soon after they are inside, Olivia strides over to one of the windows and presses a button on a small remote resting on a sill. Thick curtains slide in from either side of all of the windows, effectively blocking out the outside world. 

The young woman doesn’t appear to have any idea of the position she, like so many other unfortunate souls, has found herself in – while Olivia grabs another sheet from the floor and drapes it over a tasteful brown leather couch, the woman wanders over to the small bar cart set up in one corner and crouches down, perusing the contents. She’s nervous, certainly – Camille can hear the rapid pounding of her heart, can taste the sour tang of her anxiety as it mixes with the smell of her arousal – but she isn’t _scared_. 

She’s a fool. 

“May I have a drink?” she asks, glancing back over her shoulder, eyes flicking from Olivia to Camille and back again. Olivia nods and waves a hand at the cart, and the woman pours some rum into a thick, crystal glass. She downs half of it in one gulp before she rises to her feet. "Sorry, I’ve just… I’ve never done this before. I’ve gone to the bar before, I mean, but I’ve never gone home with, um…” 

“Someone like us?” Camille asks, raising an eyebrow. She’s heard the same speech, or variations thereof, more times than she can count. It used to amuse her, how vulnerable people were willing to make themselves around vampires, how easily their desire won out over their intelligence and their most basic instincts. Now, she almost finds it _boring_. 

Sometimes, she would rather that they not talk at all. 

The woman swallows and nods her head. Her glass is shaking in her hand. “Yes. That’s what I mean.” 

“Adorable,” Olivia says dryly. She catches Camille’s eye across the room and carefully circles around the woman, footsteps almost entirely silent. If she wanted to, Camille could probably fight for the right to make the first move (she _is_ the guest here, after all), but her curiosity wins out over her innate desire to stake her claim. She knows that upirs feed differently from other vampires, but she’s never witnessed such a feeding in person. She’s seen some illustrations in old texts, but it’s entirely possible that those are exaggerations, meant to scare rather than inform. 

She wants to watch Olivia work. 

“We can wait until you finish your drink, if you’d like,” she says, taking a quick look at the woman before her eyes slide right back to Olivia. Even without being able to feel the effects of Olivia’s thrall, she is mesmerized by the way she moves, precise and sure, like someone on a stage who has performed a play so many times that they know their mark by heart. Stepping closer, she slides one long fingered hand up into the young woman’s hair. The young woman raises her glass to her lips with a powerfully trembling hand. She finishes off the last of the rum, but she leaves the glass in her hand, too secured by Olivia’s grip to move forward to set it on the nearby coffee table. 

“Okay,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m ready.” Her free hand is at her side, tangled into the hem of her black skirt, exposing a few inches of pale, creamy thigh. If Camille concentrates, she can see the veins thrumming under the woman’s skin, feel the blood beckoning to her. The thought of it pouring warm and thick down her throat makes her flush with heat, but she remains motionless, waiting with bated breath to see what Olivia does. 

Olivia doesn’t say a word. She simply tightens her hand in the woman’s hair and yanks her head back, exposing the length of her neck. There are a few moments of pause after that, a pause where the only one of them that moves is the young woman. She takes heaving gulps of breath, twists and fumbles with the hem of her skirt, makes tiny thrusting movements with her hips, as if she’s looking for some kind of friction that she can grind against. 

And then, just as Camille starts to grow itchy with anticipation, the transformation begins. 

It starts with a loud sound that pierces the room, a _crack_ , like that of someone breaking a stick over their thigh. Olivia’s mouth opens, wider and wider, jaw unhinging until her mouth is a gaping, dark maw. The rest of her features don’t shift to accommodate her mouth – they stay the same, looking strangely scrunched in her face. Her teeth don’t reshape themselves into elongated fangs, like Camille’s do (like they are, right now, watching Olivia change); if it wasn’t for the black hole that they were framing, they would look completely human. 

Before the woman can notice that anything has gone awry, Olivia closes her mouth around her throat. 

The woman's eyes go wide, and her mouth drops open, but not a single sound leaves it. Her glass drops to the floor and tips over onto its side, leaving a single rivulet of rum to trickle onto the hardwood. Her hands spasm at her side, and she cranes up on her tiptoes, like she’s trying to jump out of Olivia’s grip. While much of it ends up safely secured in Olivia’s mouth, some of her blood escapes and trickles over her collarbone into the neckline of her shirt. Camille’s mouth, her tongue, her _throat_ , ache to lick it up, and before she can think better, the hunger, the _need_ , wins out over the remainder of her mind. She crosses the space between them in a blur, slots herself underneath where Olivia’s mouth is still wrapped around the column of the woman’s neck, and drags her tongue through the stream of blood coursing down the left side of the woman’s chest. It burns in the loveliest possible way down Camille’s throat, the taste slightly tainted by the rum that is now soaking into the floor, and Camille groans as she drinks deep. 

The stream begins to dry up all too quickly, but before Camille can worry about the well running dry, Olivia sharply whips her head up, taking most of the young woman’s throat with her. 

Gouts of warm blood splash Camille’s face and soak her dress and her bare calves. She swipes her tongue around her lips, collecting whatever she can, scooping up torn pieces of flesh and swallowing them whole. Even though she is standing off to one side, her grip in the young woman’s hair the only thing that is keeping her upright, Olivia is soaked as well. It’s nearly impossible to tell that her dress used to be white, and the exposed skin on her neck and arms and face is slick with blood. Her mouth is still open and wide, and her teeth are stained bright red. 

She looks like a vengeful god. 

Camille wants to worship at her altar. 

“Please, join me,” she says, nearly choking on the thick film of blood coating her throat. The strength of her need is too strong for her to wait for Olivia’s answer, so she dives back in, pressing her face into the tattered remnants of the woman’s throat, dangling pieces of skin and sinew and muscle brushing against her skin as she drinks her fill. Beside her, Olivia leans back in, soft hair brushing the side of Camille’s neck as she drinks noisily. Occasionally, Camille hears the sound of tearing flesh as Olivia burrows her way further into the woman’s neck, and each instance of the sound sends another wave of heat flooding between her legs, until the insides of her thighs are just as drenched as the rest of her. 

Unfortunately, one side effect of the way that upirs feed, of how utterly _thorough_ their destruction is, is that there’s no way to prolong the meal. All too soon, the woman’s blood stops flowing, and Camille is forced to step away as Olivia unceremoniously lets go of her. The woman folds to the floor in a crumpled heap, silent and still. 

While the well may have run dry, there’s no lack of blood in the immediate vicinity. The floor around them, the sheets arranged over the furniture, are all splashed with it. Camille can feel it plastered on her face, clumped into her hair. She greedily sucks it off her fingers, runs her tongue over her own palms until she can see her skin peeking out. 

Slowly, Olivia’s jaw begins to retract, bones cracking as they reset. Even as she continues to lick blood off her own arms, Camille can’t take her eyes away from Olivia’s face, from the way her skin ripples and shifts as the bones move back into place. 

She wants this. She wants her transformation to be a thing that she can’t hide. She wants it to be bone breaking and grotesque. 

She wants to be truly _monstrous_. 

“Should we talk business?” she eventually says, absently running a hand down the damp front of her dress and bringing it back to her mouth to lick clean. She doesn’t really _want_ to talk business, but she figures that, if she at least makes a token attempt to bring the meeting back to its original purpose, she can give herself points for trying. 

“Fuck business,” Olivia snarls, crossing the space between them, wrapping her hands tight around Camille’s waist, and yanking her into an open-mouthed kiss. There is no finesse to it, absolutely no tenderness – it is hard and brutal, harder than Camille would ever dare to kiss a human. Olivia tastes of blood and flesh and power, and it is utterly intoxicating, in a way Camille has never experienced. Only moments into their kiss, Olivia’s fingers start tearing through Camille's dress. Without removing her mouth from Camille’s, Olivia rips and shreds, tossing the ragged scraps of fabric onto the blood soaked floor as she goes, and Camille returns the favor. She searches for the zipper on Olivia’s back for a few seconds before she gives up, hooks her fingers into the neckline of her dress and _pulls_. Eventually, it falls from Olivia’s frame, revealing the full length of her body. She’s wearing a corset and matching lace underwear underneath, both of them mottled red where the blood soaked through her dress, and Camille can’t decide whether she wants to finish the job, make sure all traces of white on Olivia’s lingerie are obliterated before she rips them off, or if she wants to skip straight to the latter. 

She’s not exactly sure how they end up on the couch, lying atop the bloodied, dirty sheet. They claw at each other like wild animals, dig into each other’s skin with their nails, lick up whatever blood they can find on the other. Eventually, Camille manages to fight her way so that she’s on top of Olivia, and she immediately uses her fangs to shred Olivia’s underwear. She tosses the fragments to the floor, spits them out from between her teeth. Some of them land on top of the woman’s corpse, drift like snow down into her hair or the shattered remnants of her throat. 

Olivia isn’t quiet. She moans, she curses, she _growls_ from deep in her chest. It’s the last sound that really spurs Camille on. Barely thinking of, but definitely driven by, the burning hot throb of her own cunt, after she’s torn off Olivia’s underwear, she presses her face between Olivia’s smooth thighs and drags the flat of her tongue up to Olivia’s clit, soaking her chin on the way. Immediately, Olivia’s hand falls into her hair, pulls her carefully planned up-do into complete disarray, until Camille can feel individual strands circling her head like a halo. Her scalp stings as Olivia grips harder, and in retaliation, Camille twists her head and presses her fangs deep into the taut skin of Olivia’s inner thigh. 

That earns her another one of those delicious, bestial growls. Olivia’s hips arch off the sofa, towards her face, and who is Camille to deny what it is so clearly not a request? 

So she presses back in. 

She occasionally pulls back to nip at the inside of Olivia’s thighs, drawn there over and over again by the softness of her skin, but mainly, she keeps herself busy by flicking her tongue against the hardened bud of Olivia’s clit, sucking it into her mouth, occasionally scraping the very tip of a fang over it. She presses her fingers inside of Olivia, starting off with two, then rapidly progressing to three, followed by four when Olivia snaps at her for more. Olivia’s wetness drips down her wrist and onto the sheet underneath them, soaks the bottom half of Camille’s face until it’s the only thing that she can taste.

Blood may sustain her, but this is a taste that she could easily come to crave. 

She rapidly loses track of time – nothing exists outside of the bubble that the two of them have made. She keeps thrusting with her fingers, working her jaw, even when the slightest of aches begins to set in (which is intriguing - she wasn’t even aware she could get to that point anymore). Every time Olivia comes, clenches down around Camille’s fingers and, eventually her entire fist, she bucks up her hips and demands _more_ , hisses it through her teeth like a viper as she drags her nails down the back of Camille’s neck, rakes them over Camille’s scalp, palms at her own breasts, and pinches her nipples almost violently. 

Camille is more than happy to meet her demands. 

Eventually, after one final orgasm that she announces with a bitten off shout of _fuck_ , Olivia sags back against the couch. She’s slicked with sweat, chest glistening with it, and there are still a few droplets of blood clinging to the line of her jaw and chin. 

The sight of her like this, disheveled and satisfied, makes more heat spark between Camille’s legs.

She sits back on her knees and drags her tongue around her mouth, licking up what she can of Olivia’s come. She sucks each of her fingers clean, taking each one in to the knuckle, as she waits for Olivia to recover. 

It doesn’t take long, and when she strikes, she moves so quickly that Camille, for the first time in a very, very long time, finds herself taken off guard. 

Olivia sits up, grabs Camille by the waist and _yanks_ , pulls her up so that her knees are on either side of Olivia’s head, left knee almost sliding off the edge of the couch. Before she can make any attempt to find the most comfortable position, Olivia pulls Camille down to her mouth and presses her tongue up into the wet heat of Camille’s cunt. 

Camille tightens her grip on the back of the couch, spreads her legs as far as she is able, and loses herself to the ferocity of Olivia’s mouth.

By the time she also collapses into a heap, feeling completely boneless, what seems like every square inch of her skin is covered in some kind of liquid or another, and it’s too late to return to her clan. There are no clocks in the room, but at the edges of the windows, between the frames and the blinds, she can see a faint glow, the sun rising to greet the morning. Her clan is probably worried about her, but frankly, they could do with some worry. As much as she tries not to, she spoils them. 

They can manage a few hours without her.

“So,” she says, raising her head and glancing up at the sofa. She’s still not entirely sure how she ended up on the floor, but she’s head to head with the young woman’s corpse, which is starting to smell unappetizing. “I don’t know about you, but I find it rude to talk about business over breakfast. Should we take a rain check?” 

Olivia laughs, reaches one hand over the edge of the sofa and drags her fingers down the center of Camille’s chest. “How about this? I know you need to sleep soon. Once the sun is down, I will listen to your proposal. And, if we come to an agreement, we can celebrate over dinner. Deal?” 

Even if they can’t come to an agreement that suits the both of them, Camille is willing to do just about anything to ensure she gets to share another dinner with Olivia, to ensure that she gets to give this woman the reverence that she deserves. 

So, tilting her head back, taking in the chaos surrounding them, the torn clothes and the blood stains and the corpse, she nods. 

“Yes. You have a deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com) :)


End file.
